


Tabula Rasa

by elena0206



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Exams, First Kiss, Fluff, I am tired they are tired everyone is tired, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slow Romance, Studying, Tired Hannibal, Tired Will, there's not much plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena0206/pseuds/elena0206
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter both died on the west coast of the roiling Atlantic, but Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter did not stay dead for long. A few weeks later they were reborn on the east side of their watery grave. </i>
</p><p>In which Hannibal is studying for an upcoming exam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tea_Stain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_Stain/gifts).



> This was a prompt from Z, inspired by Z, written for Z. Thank you for putting your trust in me and I hope you'll enjoy it. Also thank you Caroline for beta reading this and shouting at me. I love you both dearly. ♥
> 
> This fic has a fanmix [here](http://8tracks.com/elena0206/affection).

* * *

_12:38 am_

The worn mattress creaks loudly in unison with Will’s annoyed grunt as he shifts in bed and throws the uncomfortably warm blanket off, getting up and trotting to the bathroom. He shudders slightly at the contact when his bare feet start clicking on the cold tiles of the floor until he stops in front of the sink, stepping on the small rug. The ceiling light is buzzing slightly and the shower tap leaking, making a dull dropping sound. He’ll have to fix it. Eventually. Closing his eyes and bending over the white sink, he throws a handful of cold water over his face in an attempt to refresh himself just enough so he can go back to sleep.

Moroccan summer nights are unbearably warm for Will Graham – he always becomes a sweaty mess overnight, the damp clothing sticking to his skin making it almost impossible to rest. It is now a habit of his to spend a good part of the night outside on the porch, reading or fixing something or just sitting there with his eyes closed and enjoying the silence. Hannibal Lecter, on the other hand, seems to be able to handle the warm nights better, although his bedroom is much smaller than Will’s and therefore much quicker to become warm. But Hannibal never complains about it – unlike Will who is often moody and grouchy after nights without proper rest and no matter how much Hannibal tries, he can’t get him to articulate answers more elaborate than just a few words.

 _At least the sleepwalking has stopped,_  Will tells himself, drying his face with a clean towel. The nightmares have stopped too, almost entirely. They have been living in Morocco for less than a year, and although it is a strikingly new environment for both of them, Will feels safer here than ever before. Maybe it’s novelty that he needs – constant change, fresh starts, new beginnings, building his life from scratch – and not stability and slow-paced steadiness as he has mistakenly assumed in the past. Maybe it’s the air here. The grass may not be greener on the other side of the fence, but the Atlantic’s coast is certainly more welcoming from here. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter both died on the west coast of the roiling Atlantic, but Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter did not stay dead for long _._ A few weeks later they were reborn on the east side of their watery grave.

Will has managed to reconstruct broken parts of him and polish puzzle pieces so they would fit together.  One day at a time and he can feel himself becoming steadier – a functional human being, and not just an empty shell defined by the terrors living in his head. Certain terrors are still residing in his mind, but Will has come to accept them as part of who he is. Even though the language barrier is still a significant problem, socializing isn’t all that unpleasant anymore. He’s even got a job at a small workshop down the street from where they live. It is peaceful here. It is comfortable, and it will stay this way for the foreseeable future. The past is still nudging him from time to time, like shadows of a previous life filling up the cracks in an otherwise solid surface. Their new life is far from perfect and he often finds himself wondering if it was wise to put his trust in Hannibal. But whether it was wise or not, it doesn’t matter. Because it's too late now to back away and it's too late to change his mind. Not that he wants to. After all, it doesn’t have to be perfect to be _good enough_.

As he is returning to his bedroom, Will notices that the lights in the living room are still on like a ghostly presence in their house. He lets out a long and tired sigh. He knows all too well _why_ and, more importantly, _who._

_When Hannibal announced he intended to start working again as a surgeon, Will was not against the idea the idea._

_“It could be dangerous,” Hannibal warned Will that day during breakfast, shifting his cup of tea from one hand to the other. “Something as banal as a routine background check could disclose the truth behind our identities.”_

_Will chuckled lightly while chewing on his food. “But you’ve already thought of that, haven’t you?” Hannibal didn’t reply, so Will continued, without taking his eyes off the plate in front of him. “It’s not the first time it has occurred to you it might be dangerous.”_

_Hannibal took a long sip of tea, savoring its slightly bitter intensity and the spicy fragrance. “It’s a short-lived sense of security that we are having here.”_

_“It’s not that,” Will said, frowning slightly. Hannibal’s lack of protest in front of Will's accusation was clearer than any verbal confirmation. “There are over one hundred countries we can flee to.”_

_“Over one hundred opportunities to start all over again,” Hannibal completed after a moment of deliberation. His voice was low, almost a whisper._

_“But that’s not really what’s bothering you, is it? It’s not the danger and it's not the possibility of being caught.”_

_Hannibal swallowed and nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, and Will stopped eating to catch his gaze for a moment._

_“Of course you do have my support.”_

_Hannibal should have known that, but Will knew why he didn't. They didn't talk about it._

* * *

Will enters the living room slowly, careful not to make any noise, but the old wooden floor is far from cooperative, creaking slightly at every step.

Hannibal doesn't seem to notice. He's sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by papers and heavy books with dark and thick covers. The open windows loom large and a slight gust of wind is coming inside, making the curtains move in slow waves. There's a whole orchestration of night sounds outside with leaves rustling and crickets chirping and the distant roar of the city. There's a distinctive sound coming from inside too –  Hannibal murmuring to himself in a low and half-whispered voice, as his eyes trail the lines from the book he's bent over, so fast that Will wonders if he actually has time to process what he's reading.

A fond smile appears on Will's face. He’s never expected to see Hannibal studying for an exam, but here they are. The good old Doctor Lecter having to prove his worth in order to be able to practice his profession again. But Will knows it is more than just a mere job interview, and Hannibal’s arduous efforts are all justified. He has to pass a thorough exam in Arabic, one of the languages none of them have spoken before. In the few months they've spent there, they managed to pick up just enough to understand the others and make themselves understood. Will's job doesn't require a lot of social interaction, and certainly nothing too complex, so it is enough for him to go by. But Hannibal has to sound convincing and trustworthy and be able to communicate in a quick and clear way.

Somehow, he managed to do just that and pass the initial candidates screening. It must have been his trained charm, his carefully constructed mannerism, and his making use of any non-verbal mean of communication available because he is still far from fluent on an academic level. Will briefly teased the idea that Hannibal might have created a vacancy or two to make it easier for himself to advance on the desired position, but he chose not to dwell on this thought for too long.

Will stands still behind Hannibal and watches him flipping through the pages, trying to engulf as much information as possible. The exam takes place the next morning and Hannibal seems to be doing some last-minute revising. The many years spent studying the mind instead of the body have clearly taken a toll on him. He still has a solid chunk of basic knowledge, but he was surprised to find out how many of the fine details escape him. He has to familiarize himself with medical terms in Arabic too, which is an additional challenge and not an easy one to accomplish on short notice.

Now Will is right behind Hannibal's chair, but the latter is still too focused to notice. He reaches out and his hand hovers over Hannibal's shoulder in a brief second of timid affection. The space between Will’s hand and Hannibal’s shoulder is mere inches, and this thought alone sends waves of tingling warmth through Will’s palm. He wants to touch Hannibal and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t. He wants to do it and… His hand settles on the chair’s backrest.

Will knows better than this, but for a moment he can swear he startled Hannibal. The latter stops reading and straightens his back.

"Hey," Will starts speaking softly. "How's it going?"

"I thought you were asleep."

"I thought so too, but the weather begs to differ again."

Will walks around the table and takes a seat opposite of Hannibal.

"It is quite surprising your body still hasn't adjusted to the temperature here. It might be a warning sign of an underlying problem. Perhaps something to do with your hypothalamus and its ability to regulate body temperature."

"I'm not your homework, Hannibal."

The strained tug of his lips makes it obvious Hannibal hasn’t been smiling in a while. He also hasn’t been sleeping much lately, and Will can’t help but feel a sting of concern for him.

Hannibal lets his glance slowly drift away from the book and travel across the table. "You should go back to sleep," he says, searching through his notes.

"I'm not the one having an exam in the morning."

"No. If you were, you'd be studying."

Will laughs shortly, more of a puff escaping through his noise. "Never been the hardworking type of student."

"And yet you've always succeeded. One of the greatest profilers the FBI has ever laid their hands on."

"It had to do more with circumstance and situation. I've never counted my work with the FBI as a personal success."

“It is rather difficult to celebrate excellence in a field that does not wholly intersect your area of interest.”

“It’s the closest I could get to my _area of interest_.”

Hannibal stops and looks up to Will, a wave of sudden interest washing over him. "What would you count as a personal success?"

Furrowing his brow, Will takes a few moments to think about it. The answer briefly passes by and then escapes him. "I'll go make us tea," he eventually says. "If it turns out fine, I'll count that as a personal success."

Hannibal doesn’t insist. He nods at Will before focusing his attention on the books and notes again.

* * *

The kitchen is poky and packed with modern appliances according to all of Hannibal’s whims. It’s much more than they need, much more than they could ever use, but Hannibal still insists on buying everything that catches his eye. He also insists to point out every time he does so that the appliances, the utensils, the furniture, everything they own is for them _,_ for _both_ of them.  And this stirs a plethora of contradicting feelings inside of Will that he always chooses to push, push aside.

It is a well-lit room with beige mosaic walls, curves arcades, and a pillar in the middle, holding the weight of the ceiling. So very different from Hannibal’s kitchen back in Baltimore, this one feels much warmer and homey, as opposed to the clean-edge coldness of the previous one, resembling a surgery room more than part of a home.

Will has to open a few drawers and cupboard doors before finding the one where tea is stored. It makes him realize just how foreign the kitchen’s territory is to him. Hannibal is usually the one who makes tea and coffee or cooks for them. His precision and his carefully calculated movements are most enjoyable to watch for Will. His training in surgery certainly bleeds through all activities and sometimes Will feels like his assistant, helping around, passing Hannibal a knife or a carton of eggs when he requests it.

He searches through the carefully packed little bags of leaves in various colors from dark green to faded brown. He settles for Tieguanyin, a local variety of _Camellia sinensis_ grown in the Anxi province, China and Nantou, Taiwan. Will isn't entirely sure how easy it was for Hannibal to procure it, but he doesn't doubt that once Hannibal sets a goal in his mind, even if it's something as trivial as tea, he will go to great extents to achieve it. Not that tea is a trivial matter to Hannibal; Will wouldn’t dare to assume that.

He opens the bag mindfully and looks inside, raising his eyebrows and breathing in the scent. The leaves are rolled into little balls and the smell is distinctive: it has a fresh and flowery aroma, without feeling grassy. He decides he likes it and starts preparing the tea.

The teacups are stored on the highest shelf above the sink. There are metaphors in life that come and pass by, spoken in a rush, perhaps without much thought, and then there are metaphors that strike a deep chord and stick around, becoming part of the very physical word. The teacup and its fragility is one such metaphor, one that managed to stick to them both and coil around their souls with no intention of letting go. They are both careful with the teacups, much more so than with any other household object – an unhealthy obsession with something that has never happened, and hopefully never will.

After carefully placing two of the teacups on the countertop, Will pours the hot and golden liqueur. It's still too warm to taste it and see if it is any good, so Will can only hope that he didn't _completely_ ruin it. He takes the two teacups to the living room where Hannibal is still studying, now completing an exam sample and comparing his answers with the official ones.

When Will places one of the teacups in front of him, Hannibal raises his head and nods gratefully. Will answers with a similar head nod, but adds a half-smile to it. He settles on the chair opposite of Hannibal and leans back, watching the other take a sip from his tea.

"A green oolong," Hannibal remarks after savoring the warm liquid and letting its flavor spread over his palate and at the back of his throat. "I have never prepared this one for you before."

"It's easier to make tea when there's no previously established standard set by you."

Hannibal smiles. He looks contented, Will reckons.

"It's your standard I should fear now,” he says, watching Will over the rim of his cup. “The tea is most delightful. A little bit too intense, if anything. But that's just ideal for a boost of energy at this late hour."

Will sighs softly, pleased to have appeased Hannibal, and rests one elbow on the table, holding his head with one hand and mindlessly playing with his own hair. "Are you planning to stay up all night?" His tone is suddenly grave, baring the same earnest concern as his countenance.

"As long as it's necessary."

"I'll stay with you, then.”

"I would advise against it."

"Advice taken and promptly disregarded."

Hannibal raises his eyes just for one moment to catch Will's little crooked smile. "Very well. I greatly enjoy your company."

They spend the next few minutes drinking their tea in silence, Hannibal skimming though big chunks of solid text and taking notes, and Will watching him with interest, with warmth, with _affection_. He doesn’t question the balmy softness spreading through his chest when Hannibal smiles or the stinging flutter down his spine when Hannibal’s voice is low and raspy. He doesn’t question the way his hearts beats fast – faster, _too fast_ —and the shaking of his limbs, the rush of blood in his cheeks, the lump in his throat. He doesn’t question anything at all and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. Because it feels _right_.

Hannibal is wearing a plain black T-shirt with a V-neck collar, revealing the bare skin of his neck and a patch of hair from his chest, peeking from beneath the rim. He first argued that his newfound style was only for the sake of disguise – nothing more than a clever camouflage – but then he soon started wearing casual clothing at home when nobody else but Will could see him. Will knows he enjoys this new state of affairs more than he cares to admit. He can only imagine how refreshing it must be to wear informal clothes after spending a whole life in suits, ties, and rigorous elegance, and abandoning the tightly regulated sprezzatura, at least in one respect.

Truth to be told, Will doesn’t mind the change. He doesn’t mind it _at all_ , but he’s been purposefully avoiding blatantly staring at Hannibal. Sometimes it is really difficult not to notice the way locks of his now shoulder-length hair fall out of his messy bun down his face, or the way the _slightly_ too tight shirts stretch over his upper chest, or the thin fabric of shorts molding over his thighs, or, or, or. There’s a lot to notice, and even more to _avoid_ noticing. They’ve been through ups and downs together, spent plenty of time in each other’s company, learned how to trust each other and live with each other, became _intimate_. Now it only comes as a natural consequence that when Will’s sleepy gaze lingers down from Hannibal’s face along his neck and chest, he doesn’t stop it. It’s a primeval drive almost, and yet a conscious and deliberate decision to let it happen. Much like a dam controlling the course of an unbridled stream.

Once more this night Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice Will’s stare on him – and if he does notice, he makes sure not to let it show. He continues his process of alternating between reading and taking notes, occasionally stopping to stretch his neck, now strained from sitting in the same position for hours.

It’s now nearing 2 am and the whole house is getting progressively colder, the wooden furniture dilating and creaking like a sigh of relief from having gone through yet another scalding day. Will is more relaxed as well and now downright exhausted. The atmosphere between him and Hannibal is oozing with trust and intimacy, all forbidden utterances now embedded in the very nature of their comfort.

“We can go somewhere to celebrate after you finish with the exam tomorrow.”

Will’s words have such an easy-going fluidity in their flow that Hannibal has to stop for a moment to process the meaning behind this mellow cadence. They’ve been out together a few times before, but it’s only been incidental – nothing planned. And now Will is asking him to celebrate together after his exam. Will is asking him – Hannibal – to go out with him – Will – and spend time _together_. The prospect of a romance has long replaced the one of mere friendship, but the sudden reality and the enormity of it all is deeply overwhelming nonetheless. An excuse – only half elaborate – almost slips past Hannibal’s lips, but he stops. He stops and takes it all in, all over again, all new and fervent and _real_. So real that it makes Hannibal’s heart stir in his chest and his breath strangle him from the inside, air burning in his lungs and blood flooding and screaming and screaming and _aching_. For this – all of it. For Will.

“Yes.”

It’s all he manages to murmur – a single whispered word ripped from the depths of his throat, gravel-like in its sound, tumbling past his lips and rolling into the dense silence of the room to bring the burning trail of his thoughts to a halt.

Will nods, almost – but not thoroughly – unaware of all that is going on with Hannibal.

“I’ll book us a table for two first thing in the morning,” he says with unaffected eagerness, to which Hannibal simply nods, unable to form any coherent verbal response.

“I prefer your cooking too, but we could both use a change,” he adds as if Hannibal needs to be convinced into agreeing, as if he wasn’t completely sold on the idea from the first moment.

Yet Will can’t know this when all Hannibal does is nodding, silenced by a sense of ecstatic anticipation. He watches Will with dazzled attention as he’s playing with one of his pencils, scribbling meaningless shapes on a piece of paper. Years ago he would have been irked – to say at least – by this nonchalant use of one of his Palomino Blackwing pencils that will most likely damage its carefully sharpened point. But it no longer matters now, because the joy of seeing Will at ease around him weighs in more than any material possession. This realization makes his chest clench and he takes his eyes off Will abruptly as if the very sight of him started to burn.

And so he begins again – reading, taking notes, reading, checking, reading. Again and again, careful and methodical. Efficient too by the look of it as he closes one of the books with undisrupted tranquility on his face, sets it aside, and opens another one, this time even heavier.

Will sighs. Not to draw Hannibal’s attention, but when it does happen, he realizes he doesn’t _not_ want it either.

“Will,” Hannibal begins and his voice is as soothing as ever, as soothing as an executioner’s voice can be after his victim is acquitted. There’s something almost pleading in Hannibal’s eyes when they meet Will’s.  

“You really should go back to sleep. I insist.”

“Soon.”

It’s all he wants to say, but far from all it takes to convince Hannibal.

“ _Soon_ could stretch from a matter of minutes to the early hours of dawn.”

“Somewhere, between the two, I will comply.”

“Closer to the latter, something tells me.”

“That is not entirely inaccurate.”

Hannibal relents again in front of Will’s stubbornness, but not without gently shaking his head with a look of disapproval. Disapproval for the sake of disapproval, because the glimpse of fondness in Hannibal’s eyes does not escape Will.

The latter smiles, and there’s a faint trace of proud mischief in his sleepy grin, as if they’re both players of hide-and-seek, teaming up against the rest of the world. In a sense, they are. In a sense, they’ve always been, ever since they first met, but now there’s no more room for doubting whether they are on the same team or not. 


	2. Chapter 2

Will glances over the table, and not without surprise, he notices Hannibal’s handwritten notes are far from the elegant, cursive font he’s been using before. The letters are in disarray, varying from word to word. There are skewed lines and uneven pressure points, prints left by a staggering pen on paper. Maybe it’s the tiredness, or maybe he doesn’t have any more reasons to keep up an appearance – most likely both – but Hannibal doesn’t seem to make any effort to correct it.

Hannibal yawns. It takes Will by surprise, but he follows suit. There’s a heaviness settling in over both of them, as the dark length of the horizon stretches apart, making room for the first shades of light to adjust onto the sky.

Will focuses his attention on one of Hannibal’s books now. It’s lying on the edge of the table, spread open with half of its weight hanging loose above the floor. There’s something about this frail equilibrium that catches Will’s eye. He could push it off the table just as easily as he could pull it back to safety, and until one of the two claims its place into existence, both are equally likely to happen.  The chances are none will happen, and instead Hannibal will pick up the book when he finishes and will put it back in its place. And yet, the possibility hovers between the tail of a second and the apex of another, lurking in the darkness of absence.

The chair creaks when Hannibal stretches and extends his neck, reaching behind with an arm on his lower back. The sudden movement rouses Will to raise his head from where it was resting on his arms. Noticing Hannibal’s labored breathing and the cracking of his bones, Will snaps out of his drowsy contemplation and realizes Hannibal’s back and neck must hurt after spending so much time on a chair.

Knowing what should be done about it, but not daring to offer it, Will swallows, clearing the drought of his throat away, and lets out a long sigh. There’s a slight fluctuation to it, sounding like a scolding – too weak to bring any feeling akin to remorse or guilt to the surface.

But Hannibal catches it, and he catches the tense hesitation in Will’s pose, now with one leg jutting away from the chair – on the verge of rising up, on the verge of sitting down, on the verge of being trapped between two intentions. 

It’s not about Hannibal’s back ache. And it’s not about Will offering to help relieve the pain with a massage. And it’s _definitely_ not about both of them wanting to touch the other. It’s about the way they slid into this new life of theirs with so little effort that they’re both taken aback by the pace at which it advances.

And yet.

“Do you need a…” Will stops when he hears his own voice out loud, and the question is left hanging between the two of them.

Hannibal could say no. They both know Hannibal could say no and then Will would nod and it would be uncomplicated again. He could say no, but…

“Yes.”

A minute later, Will isn’t entirely sure how he got from his seat opposite of Hannibal to standing behind his back. He doesn’t remember the sliding of his chair’s legs. He doesn’t remember the touch of wooden floor beneath his bare feet. He doesn’t remember the steps taken until there with precision. It’s not his skewed perception of reality that makes him forget. On the contrary. It’s an acute sense of awareness, a sharp feeling of belonging in the moment that makes the past – be it only mere seconds left behind – utterly irrelevant. His life back in the States is nothing more than the echo of a footstep taken on the path that has led them right here and right now – between them a space collapsing under its own weight, a silent turmoil boiling and leaking out of its shell.

It feels surreal for only a second longer until Will’s hands register the mass of Hannibal’s body in their grasp. He starts rubbing his hands over Hannibal's tense and sore muscles, at first slowly and gently, and when no protest came from Hannibal, faster and applying more pressure. He freezes when a breathy moan escapes Hannibal's lips and it takes him a few seconds to be able to pick up from where he left.

Although Will was well aware that a moment would come when they would be comfortable enough with each other to share this sort of intimate touch, he still feels staggered by how simple and natural it is. It feels so right that Will wonders why it has taken them so long to get to this point. The answer eludes him.

It’s not long until Will can feel Hannibal relax under his touch, his shoulders dropping into a position of repose and his breath evening out. And then he can feel himself relax too, growing more and more comfortable with Hannibal and with this – with all of it.

After going back and forth between  wishing for more and wishing for less – because _more_ might be _too much_ for them to handle – for a couple of minutes, Hannibal reaches out over his shoulder, his hand resting on Will’s.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal whispers, and gently presses on Will’s hand before quickly retreating his.

Will lets out a short puff through his nose, smiling. “You are welcome,” he says, lingering for just one more second with his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders before taking them off as well.

They both return to their previous positions, in a mutually unspoken pact to let the new feeling of closeness sink in without discussing it out loud. In truth, they don’t have to. A quick look from Will aimed directly at Hannibal from underneath his eyelashes and Hannibal’s slow blinking and the slight curve of his lips are enough for the two of them to figure where they are in relation to each other. And where they are is pleasant, delightful even, for both.

* * *

When Hannibal’s hard gently squeezes Will’s shoulder, it takes the latter a few good seconds to realize he has fallen asleep with his head resting on crossed arms, still sitting on a chair in their living room.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Will quickly blurts out, rubbing his eyes in hopes that his vision would become clearer.

“No need to apologize,” Hannibal assures, his words accompanied by a warm and gentle smile. “Please go to bed and get some rest,” he continues with a slight furrow of his brow, as to show his concern. “I have little material left to go over and then I will follow as well.”

Will bobs his head in agreement, not entirely satisfied with Hannibal’s plan, but unable to pursue a different course of action due to his exhaustion. He rises from his chair slowly, his groggy dizziness dragging him towards the ground, and makes a few weighty steps heading for the hallway to the bedrooms.

He stops in the door frame, turns around, and watches Hannibal for a few seconds. He can’t imagine Hannibal as nervous or stressed about an exam; that would be entirely uncharacteristic to him. But not even Hannibal Lecter can control everything that happens to him. Will knows that there must a seed of dread in him, even though not sprouting yet. 

“You’ll do well,” he assures with as much calm in his voice as he can convey, and gives Hannibal one last smile before tramping off and leaving him staring at a now empty space, listening to Will’s heavy footfalls and grinning to himself.

* * *

The alarm clock has long stopped ringing when Will finally wakes up. With his eyes still closed, he moves to the side of the bed and is baffled when his feet land onto a pair of fuzzy slippers. The moment he realizes he’s in Hannibal’s bedroom instead of his own fills him with panic and guilt in equal measures. He remembers agreeing to go to sleep after keeping Hannibal company the night before, but not much else past that point. He can only assume he has mistakenly entered Hannibal’s bedroom because of his tiredness and already being half-asleep. More than the fact that he did accidentally sleep in Hannibal’s bed is the implication behind him subconsciously heading for Hannibal’s room and not his own. And on top of that, Hannibal most likely didn’t get any sleep because of him.

Will grunts and gets up to see if Hannibal is still home. The house is perfectly silent and unmoving, but still he hopes and searches the rooms one by one, starting from his bedroom, both expecting and _not_ expecting to see Hannibal sleeping on his bed as he has slept on Hannibal’s. He’s not surprised when the room reveals to be empty, with the covers thrown over and the bed still unmade in the same state as he has left it last night.

He listens carefully when he passes by the bathroom and moves on when no sound comes out of it. The living room is empty as well and now neat as Will has gotten used to seeing it day after day, with all of Hannibal’s books neatly placed on shelves. He must have taken the time to tidy up before leaving, and again Will feels an inescapable sense of guilt drenching him.

Finally, he gets to the small kitchen and unsurprisingly Hannibal is not there either. A plate of what looks like scrambled eggs with sausage is neatly lying on the table. Will steps closer and notices that the food is not warm, but not entirely cold either. It can’t be too long since Hannibal has left. On a second look, he also sees a little piece of paper next to the plate and a handwritten note on it.

_Dear Will,_

_thank you for everything. I will see you later today. Enjoy your breakfast._

_-H._

With hands shaking slightly, he reads the note a few times over, unreasonably afraid that the true meaning of Hannibal’s word might escape him. When he decides the message is as clear as it could get, a bright grin spread on his face for the first time that morning. He sits down and starts eating the food Hannibal has prepared for him.

* * *

The noon sky looks like a dark veil of copper corrosion from behind Will’s sunglasses. He’s wearing a white polo T-shirt and light beige trousers, with a brown leather bag strapped across his chest. With the hands in his pockets, he’s strolling on an alley shadowed by massive trees with rich foliage. The city life is buzzing all around him – people walking, talking to one another and on their phones, lovers holding hands, parents scolding children and children bargaining for an ice cream or a toy or whatever takes their fancy. 

Will is pacing around, waiting for Hannibal to finish with his exam so they can go have lunch together as they have planned. A young girl coming from the opposite direction has to stop when her brown puppy pulls on the leash to reach Will as they pass him by.

“Hey there,” he says enthusiastically with a wide smile on his face, crouching down and petting the dog, disheveling its long fur as he does so.

The dog is jumping around Will gleefully, waving its tail and gently nibbling on his fingers. The dog owner’s however, looks impatient and irritated by this sudden stop. She taps her foot on the ground and pulls at her end of the leash, trying to get her pet away from Will.

Will has the habit of keeping dog treats in his bag and giving them out to those he meets on the streets. He hasn’t taken any new dog in yet, and hasn’t even brought this topic up with Hannibal, lest it cause a disagreement between the two of them. The girl uses the opportunity of Will taking his hands off the dog to search through his bag and they both walk off without saying a word. When Will finally finds the treats bag, he raises his eyes, but his grin dissipates presently when he notices the girl and her dog are nowhere to be seen.

He stands up, feeling somewhat disappointed, only to see Hannibal approaching. He tries to read his facial expression, figure out if he is bearing good or bad news, but his countenance is unbreachable, save for the visible signs of exhaustion. They both take quick and broad steps into each other’s direction and meet halfway across the alley.

Taking his sunglasses off, Will tries to speak first after they regard each other for a brief moment, but he stops when he realizes he’s still holding the dog food in his hand.

“Is this the lunch you have planned for us?” Hannibal asks with a sly smile, tilting his head slightly.

Will lets out a breathy chuckle and scratches his head. “I’ve certainly had worse, so if you prefer…” He raises his eyebrows and extends his palm with the bone-shaped snacks towards Hannibal.

“Next time you want us to go out for lunch, you will have to specify what kind of food we are going to eat.”

They smile at each other without saying a word, both surprised by how pleasant _next time_ sounds in this context. 

Will sets the dog food back in his bag, and his expression suddenly changes. “About last night,” he starts and seems incapable of finding his words to go on.

Noticing Will’s sudden distress, Hannibal speaks up. “Before you go on a tirade of excuses, let me tell you there _is_ a reason why I insisted you take the room with a lock and a key,” he begins and Will raises his head to meet his eyes from underneath dark eyelashes. “Seeing you not using it and ultimately receiving the proof that you do not see me as a threat to your safety pleases me more than I could ever explain.”

Listening to Hannibal’s words, Will’s heart starts pounding hard enough to be visible through his shirt. It’s for the first time that the only thought running through his head when he’s with Hannibal is that he is falling in love. He _is_ falling in love with Hannibal and it is undeniably real. He’s watching Hannibal’s deep and golden eyes as their faces come closer and closer – at first slowly, and then the distance between them becomes virtually inexistent all at once.

When their lips touch for the first time, they both feel as if their bodies are shifting into thousands of figures, all at once, morphing into a shapeless conjoined blur containing all the realities they’ve never lived together. It’s both scorching and freezing. Blood is dropping and rising. Limbs are going numb and weak. Breaths stop in their throats. It’s everything and nothing and it only lasts for seconds.

They open their eyes slowly after Will pulls away. Hannibal reaches out to touch his face, gently grabbing his chin and pulling him in for another kiss – this time more passionate, more dynamic, with lips moving over lips and short and warm breaths exchanged in between – but this too lasts only for a few brief moments.

Watching each other after they separate, they both know it will be long until they will kiss again, and they both are willing to wait, even if it’s just for a fleeting second. They walk off side by side before people get a chance to notice the level of intimacy between the two of them.

“How was it?” Will asks after they take a few steps in silence.

The corners of Hannibal’s lips curve upside and his expression softens as he nods. “Excellent,” he replies. “An almost perfect score.”

There is no pride in his voice, nor is there any regret. He doesn’t seem pleased or displeased with the result, only genuinely delighted to meet Will there. As if being with Will is a more satisfying brand of success than the academic one. As if he would give up on everything, all over again only to have Will with him for a moment longer.

Luckily he doesn’t have to. Before Will, Hannibal Lecter didn’t believe in luck or misfortune. After Will, Hannibal Lecter thinks of himself as the luckiest man alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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